More Than Words
by bite-or-avoid
Summary: A series of fics and ficlets. Some stand-alone, some tying into others. Ratings vary. B/B- Updated
1. Coffee

**Title**: More Than Words**  
****Author**: Anna (bite_or_avoid)  
**Pairing**: Booth/Brennan**  
****Rating**: PG

**Word Count**: 265  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**Spoilers**: Season Finale

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_**Coffee**_

_There's something to this_, she thinks.

The way they sit together, bodies lightly touching. The way they share a beer, or fries, or a long buried secret. They've been coming more frequently now, the secrets, as if the inevitability of death is spurring their mouths into action. Ironic, considering death is their forte. But there's meaning behind the words tumbling softly between them. There has always been trust, honesty, but he is letting her see deeper into himself now, and the Booth she knew is but an aspect of the man before her. She wonders if it is the result of a realization he has come to, or if it is simply a side effect of the brain surgery that has loosened his tongue. Although, the tumor was localized to the cerebellum, and thus there was no instrumentation in the vicinity of his frontal cortex so….

The brain surgery theory does not hold up under scrutiny.

Whatever the reason for abandoning his reticence, she is grateful. And she understands this _thing_ between them a lot better than everyone perceives. She knows what she feels is… something. Something more than the insistence of _just partners_. Something more than close friends. Something more than the line in the sand he drew when it was already too late.

"Booth."

He sits closer to her now. Looks at her longer. Does he really think she doesn't notice?

"Yeah, Bones."

And she wants to give something of herself back, the way he's always telling her. She wants to give him something he never has to doubt.

"We're more than coffee."


	2. Synchronicity

**Title**: More Than Words ~ Synchronicity**  
****Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine**  
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They are a tangle of limbs and sheets and four years worth of words unspoken.

He is the heart, the instinct, and she is the mind, the reason. Often, they disagree, argue (_bicker _Booth,we _bicker_), because they see the world in different ways. But he explains it to her, and she explains it him, and somehow they bridge that impasse, because what they _do _agree on is that they respect other.

They value each other.

This is the physical manifestation of it all.

Their bodies clash, tease, push, pull, compromise, _communicate_ in that way that has always been inherent between them.

And everything they are, alone, together, whether it's her view of solitary human existence or his romantic notion of oneness with another, everything that makes them who they are is in complete agreement.

_Yes. _

_Oh, God, yes. _

His gut, her mind, his heart and hers- in perfect synchronicity.

Nothing else exists here.

Just_ this_.

***

It's only in the morning that he worries. What she's thinking, how this will change them. If she'll run. He's spent so long wondering about how this will happen, _if_ this will happen, but now that it has he's not sure what to do next. Was their relationship built so close to the line that expunging it has demolished all they had erected?

She murmurs his name, and reaches for him in her sleep.

He stops worrying.


	3. Beacon

**Word Count**: 785  
**Disclaimer**: Please don't sue  
**Spoilers**: Aliens in a Spaceship, Mayhem on a Cross

**Beacon**

The darkness envelops her like a Turin shroud.

It steals her breath and clogs her pores and eradicates all logic.

In this blackness, all that exists is the heart.

Because here, there is no faint light seeping through the cracks of a locked trunk; light that allows the promise of freedom to live on in her mind.

There is no Hodgins, needing her to _think_ and to hope, and to keep her wits about her.

Here, there is only the stench of human excrement and savage fear.

Only the echo of unanswered prayers from all those girls whose faces Angela had recreated with her sad eyes and deft hands.

Here, there is only the scampering of tiny feet. Bold. Encroaching ever closer.

She wonders if she too will be picked clean to the bone before her body is ever found.

Before Booth ever finds her.

_Booth. _

When she closes her eyes, to replace an imposed darkness with an invited one, all she can see is his face.

It's too late now, but she wishes she had told him. She wishes he had known.

Then again, she thinks, he probably had. He always does.

***

By her estimation, she has been here for somewhere close to 48 hours. There is no way out.

Her captor has not come back again.

Not yet.

She has survived far worse. Booth will come for her; she knows this, as surely as she can name all the bones in the human skeleton.

Yet some traitorous part of her desperately hopes that the last thing she ever sees is anything but this never-ending black.

***

The sound she hears is one she is not expecting.

The air around her vibrates as heavy blows reign down from somewhere beyond. The sounds are muffled, but she _knows_, and the extinguished spark of hope dares flare once again within her chest.

She wants to shout his name, to guide him. But her lips are cracked, and her throat is raw, and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth uselessly.

She does the one thing that she has never been very good at; she waits.

There is a rumble, a shout. Metal hinges squeak out their protest as something heavy is thrown back.

A light from above fills her world.

"Bones!"

She blinks back unexpected tears. The light is bright, jarring, but it is his voice…. _his voice_ that is her beacon in the dark.

She moves, reaching a trembling hand toward it, and he is there, large form backlit by the glow of salvation.

"Bones, thank God."

He's saying it over and over again, and she still hasn't said anything, and he's moving towards her with a speed she can't fathom. He's a hair's breadth away, grasping for her.

"Booth," she whispers.

A second shape on the staircase, and the spark is snuffed out forever.

"BOOTH!"

Too late.

She is helpless to do anything but watch as the bullet tears through him.

He collapses into her waiting arms, shock permanently etched into his handsome face.

She puts her hands over his chest and begs him to stay, as the very essence of his life courses thick and bright between her fingers.

There is a harsh bark of laughter, the squeak of metal, and that eternal darkness once more.

She screams through the silence, but it is too late for him to hear.

She is alone with her anguish, and her bleeding, dying heart.

***

The screams echo in her ears and she realizes that they are her own. Her eyes are unfocused and blurred with tears, and there is still darkness all around her.

She is sobbing, and shaking, and a hundred horrifying memories and fears blended into one nightmare come flooding back to the forefront of consciousness.

Hands reach out to grab her and she fights, because this is not a dream and she is not helpless or paralyzed. The hands are strong, and steady, but it is his voice… _his voice_ that brings her back from the brink of insanity.

"Shhh, it's ok. I've got you Bones. I've got you."

He pulls her to him and whispers soothing words into the skin of her back, interspersing them with peppered kisses.

She can't look at him. Not yet. But the hammering in her chest subsides and her breathing evens, and the faint traces of early morning light filter in through the shadows of her bedroom.

She inhales, breathes him in, real and familiar and only so recently hers for the taking.

He knows, she thinks. Of course he does. He always knows.

She sighs against him, and his arms around her tighten.

The nightmares do not have as firm a grip as he.


	4. Partners

**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 1,595  
**Disclaimer**: If I owned them, there would be no summer hiatus  
**Spoilers**: Allusions to previous episodes through the season finale

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**Partners**

He thinks he might be hallucinating again. Except now, he's hearing things instead of seeing them. And it just figures that he would hallucinate Bones' voice. Because, really, is there anything else that occupies his mind these days the way she does?

***

There's another dead bride-to-be. Which is perfect, because he hasn't heard nearly enough of Bones' views on the _antiquated rituals perpetuated by a narrow-minded social construct_.

"And you wonder why I don't believe in marriage."

She declares this triumphantly after they've interrogated the mourning fiancé.

"Were you not in that room with me, Bones? Because he clearly didn't do it."

"No. Not if he was fornicating with the maid of honor while his fiancée was being murdered."

"Not all guys are like that, ok? Not all marriages are like that."

"I have yet to see any evidence to the contrary."

He looks back at the young man who seems more broken up about the deposit he's lost on the venue, than the woman he's going to be burying instead of marrying.

She may have a point.

***

As far as anyone can tell, they're another soon-to-wed couple picking out china patterns.

That's not what they are though.

That's not what they'll ever be.

They're retracing Lynn Atson's steps from the fateful day that led her bones to their resting place on the forensics platform. Dinnerware appears to be less dangerous than dress shopping, but not by much.

A middle aged woman in a severe suit descends on them like a bird of prey that's found an easy mark.

"Well aren't you two a lovely couple. When is the big day?"

There's a prefabricated response to this, almost second nature now.

He can't even count the number of times it's rolled off his tongue. Three easy words meant to dispel what's so obvious to everyone but Bones.

It doesn't matter that it feels like a lie. He'll utter it, because she will.

"We're just—"

"—partners," he finishes for her. Only, she's saying—

"—looking."

And it's the strangest thing he's ever heard her say. Which is quite the statement, because he's really heard her say some crazy things.

Yet there she is, all of a sudden deviating from the script they've been rehearsing for the last four years.

But he has to be hallucinating, right?

Three hours later, when they're no closer to catching a murderer, he's still wondering if an appointment with the neurologist might be in order.

***

"Why didn't you correct her, Bones?"

They have a suspect in custody. Turns out, their victim was taste-testing more than just the cake; the best man was also on the menu.

His partner wields that little tidbit as further evidentiary support of her theory, of course.

Score another for Bones and the _anthropological irrelevancy of marriage_.

It really ticks him off.

This whole damn case pretty much ticks him off, and he'll gladly never talk about it again, except…

Except this:

"Why didn't you correct her, Bones?"

"I'm being accused of _not _correcting someone?"

"Woah, hey, was that sarcasm?"

"Sarcasm implies mockery or cynicism. I was merely expressing surprise at the sudden reversal in your critique of my lack of social consciousness."

"I don't _critique_, Bones. I only suggest, sometimes, that maybe you're a little too harsh with people. You just can't expect everyone to live up to your level of genius."

"I know."

"And modest too."

"Now who's displaying sarcasm?"

"I wasn't…. it was a joke, ok? Can you just focus on the question?"

"Why didn't I correct who about what, Booth?"

"The lady with the schoolmarm hair. Back at the china store. The one who—"

"I remember."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Why didn't you correct her when she suggested that we were… you know…"

He makes an awkward gesture with his hands, and she looks at him strangely. It's the same way she stares at a set of remains sometimes— judging, calculating, working out possibilities in that brilliant brain.

He wonders what she thinks when she looks at him like that.

"I did not feel it necessary to qualify our relationship to a complete stranger."

"Since when?"

The words escape his mouth before he can think to check them. Her eyes dart away from his, and he can count on one hand the number of times she's avoided eye contact. He doesn't like it.

"Hey, Bones. Look at me. Please."

She does. She looks at him, right at him, into him, and he's not sure if all the emotions flittering across her face mean what he thinks they mean. He's not sure if she's seeing those same emotions on his face too. It's gotta be clear as day by now, but if she's picking up on anything, she doesn't show it.

"I'm sorry if my lack of a denial made you uncomfortable, Booth. I forgot how much you like to maintain that distinction."

He's not sure he gets it.

"I don't get it."

"The line."

"What line. Bones, what are you talking about?"

"The metaphorical line you stated exists to protect individuals with dangerous professions from becoming personally involved."

Jesus. Has she been holding onto that this whole time? All these years, and that stupid self-sacrificing moment is the one she chooses to take to heart and not challenge?

"I—"

"It's alright Booth. I understand. We _are_ partners. We should correct people who make the erroneous assumption that we are intimate."

There's something about the way she says the word—_intimate_—that gives him goosebumps. And what does that mean, anyway? They've saved each other's lives. Risked their own lives. They've stood over death, and faced down death, and broken laws, and gone against beliefs they value, all for the sake of the other. If that's not _intimate_, then what the hell is?

"What does the word partner mean to you, Bones?"

Her answer is automatic.

"An associate or shared participant in some activity. A colleague."

"How about free of context. What does it mean in some old dusty language?"

"Well, I believe it is an alteration of the obsolete 14th century term _parcener_, meaning 'sharer'. It has come to denote an involvement or connection, an inclusion in some private relationship."

"Exactly."

Her brow furrows in confusion.

"I don't know what that means."

"It means that you're right, Bones. Of course we're partners. But we've been saying that for years without thinking about what it really means."

He infuses the obscure statement with as much meaning as he can muster. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he can almost laugh at the bewilderment clouding the clear blue. She has always had a hard time accepting facts she can't rationalize, but she is a scientist, first and foremost.

If the evidence doesn't fit the theory, then the theory must be flawed.

He sees the moment realization sparks in those incandescent orbs.

"You are implying that our partnership extends to more than just the workplace."

"Yeah."

"That there is something unifying about us to the exclusion of everyone else who is extraneous to our relationship."

"Yeah."

She makes that face she makes sometimes, the one he thinks of as her squinty face, and it usually means that she's rapidly reaching a conclusion about something. He waits, like always.

Finally, the corners of her mouth curve downward in that strange smile/frown combination thing she does on the rare occasions that she's both pleased and vulnerable.

"I accept your assessment, Booth."

"Yeah?"

He can't help the smile that lights up his own face, the feeling of satisfaction stretching his mouth wide.

It's like she's answering a question he hadn't dared ask.

"You know, Sweets has always insisted that we interact in a way that is exclusionary to others."

"Yeah, well, Sweets is twelve. What does he know?"

"You can't deny that we implement several forms of unique communication."

"What can I say? We're like a finely tuned machine."

"That's ridiculous. You make it sound like we work as parts of a whole, when in fact we are two completely separate individuals."

"Jeez, Bones, obviously we're not some freakish Cerberus thing."

"Why would you compare us to a three-headed dog that guards the gates to Hell?"

"I'm not comparing… just… shut up, ok Bones?"

He's not hallucinating. He knows he's not, because Bones keeps correcting him, and they're arguing like always, and things are the same between them. But somehow it's not the same, not the same at all, because suddenly she falls quiet and pensive. Which is really not unusual, but she looks a little shell shocked too.

"Booth?"

Her voice is hesitant, and she almost never hesitates, so he knows this is _something_.

"That was the first time. The first time I haven't corrected someone about us. I simply voiced the words without thinking, and that's never happened before."

"I know."

"What—what does that mean?"

She really has a way of asking him questions he's not ready to answer.

"Maybe it was a Freudian slip," he teases.

"Booth."

When she says his name like that, chiding but undeniably affectionate it just… kind of undoes him a little. He leans in, close enough for it to be uncomfortable. But it's not. In fact, he's very, very comfortable exactly right here.

She's all about the facts, the evidence, what she can see and hear and touch.

If she wants evidence…

All she has to do is look right in front of her.

"It means, Bones…" He smirks, reliving the memory. "It means I help you evolve."


	5. Tattoo

**Disclaimer**: If they were mine, the show would need to be moved to HBO

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"When did you get this?"

Her elegant fingers trace the inside of his wrist. He shudders under the touch, his whole body one giant bundle of nerves exposed to her roaming hands.

"When I was in Japan. Nak and I had a little too much sake one night and—"

"Stole a police boat?"

"What? No! How did you—"

She laughs; a low, husky sound that he's sure will be his undoing.

"Don't worry, Booth. I won't turn you in for your blatant misuse of government property."

The breath leaves his body in a surprised laugh.

"It wasn't even in this country, Bones. And I can't _believe _Nak told you about that, the traitor."

"He was simply attempting to explain the origins of your friendship. The consumption of vast quantities of alcohol is a very common bonding ritual in human males of all ages."

"Oh ho! You say that like you and Angela have never gotten drunk together."

She gives him a curious look.

"Why would I say that when it is clearly untrue?"

"Damn straight it's true. I've even seen you high."

"Only by accident!"

"Face it, Bones. Once you inhaled, that story was up for grabs."

He grins widely, imagining her hair a few shades lighter and her pupils a few dilations bigger.

She scowls, remembering a blonde lawyer on his arm.

"We weren't talking about me and Angela. We were talking about you and Sergeant Nakamura."

What made him think he could divert her attention away from a topic she'd latched onto, he'll never know. She's never let go of anything, and if he hadn't already known that, the last few weeks would have hammered the point home more than effectively.

Ever since they'd started this— whatever _this _is that invariably leads them to his bed (currently), or hers (occasionally), or the Jeffersonian 'on- loan exhibits' storage room (just that one time… twice)— he's come to two pretty damn quick conclusions about Bones.

1. Her insatiable thirst for knowledge is pretty much on par with her insatiable thirst for sex. Well, that one he had kind of figured, or, you know, fantasized about, when he wasn't driving himself crazy trying _not _to fantasize about it.

and

2. Both of those… _cravings…_ are now fully directed at him.

Not that he minds. If Bones wants to jump him on every mountable surface (which, she does), he's more than A-OK with that. Because, lets face it— that? Definitely one of the aforementioned fantasies. He certainly won't disappoint her in this respect.

It's the other thing that is completely disarming.

She wants to know him. _Really_ know him, like no one had ever bothered to before. Their second night together, he'd woken from a light slumber to find her watching him. That same intensity she brought to the work that defined them, focused on _him_, like she wanted to see down to his very bones. She asked him about the fractures on his x-rays and the scars on his body, and God help him if he didn't think he was still dreaming. It made him feel like king of the damn mountain; that he was _worth_ knowing that way. To _Bones_.

He's been flying high ever since.

It makes him _want_ to tell her everything.

It makes him want to tell her _this_.

"Booth," she prods while poking his bicep.

If he hadn't already decided to give her every part of himself, the entreaty in her eyes would have made up his mind for him.

"Look, it… I was going through a rough time. Rebecca was playing tug of war with Parker and I'd had a couple of slip- ups with… you know… with the gambling. I was losing my faith, Bones."

Her hand smoothes over his shoulder, but she remains surprisingly silent.

"So we got a little drunk, and a lot crazy, and just sort of… did it." He chuckles low in his throat. "I guess, in retrospect, it's a good thing we didn't end up in Akihabara. I would have blown a year's salary on electronics."

Bones draws her brows together pensively. Her hand runs down the length of his arm. Catching his wrist, she brings it close, pressing her lips lightly into the inked symbol.

"Soul," she breathes against the sensitized flesh. Releasing him, she repeats the gesture with the other wrist. "Destiny."

There is such tenderness in her voice and touch that he can barely breathe through the torrent of emotion. It amazes him that anyone can think this woman, this generous, affectionate woman, is cold or unaffected. Even when they had started working together, that first year when every second between them was so charged with tension he wasn't sure at any given moment if he wanted to kiss her or strangle her, he had known better. He had seen the momentary flickers of vulnerability her harsh rationalizations and unyielding dispassion tried to mask.

Now she's giving him that vulnerability, like the most significant gift he could ever have hoped for.

"So, why did you choose these words?"

"I didn't. Nak did."

She tilts her head in an unspoken question, as her hands begin to ignite tiny fires across his chest.

"He said that… that I was destined for good things."

"The Japanese culture values generosity of spirit very much, Booth. Your capacity for empathy and positive relations with those around you would be viewed as worthy of a great reward."

"Huh. And here I thought it was some sort of Shinto ritual to help me get a girl in bed."

"That is not a legitimate goal of—"

"You're too easy sometimes." He chuckles, then gives her a sly sideways glance. "But, here I am, in bed with an honest-to-God, certified genius, so it kinda worked."

"Can I ask you something else?"

The chuckle turns into a hearty laugh.

"_Now _you're asking permission?"

"Why do you always use humor as a diversionary tactic from a serious discussion? You utilize wit the way you claim I utilize logic."

It's no surprise that she leaves him flabbergasted. It's a huge surprise that she uses psychology to do it.

"I think you've been spending _way_ to much time with Sweets."

"I'm serious, Booth. Every time you share something painful, or profound, you make a joke. It is even more evident when I compliment you."

"I guess I don't think I deserve your praise."

Not that she makes a habit out of doing it, but he really hopes she won't make him spell out all the ways in which it's wrong for her to be extolling his virtues.

All the ways in which he's not really the man she thinks he is.

She's studying him with that inscrutable expression again and this time, it kind of feels like she _can_ see all the way down to his bones.

"We've all done things we're not proud of, Booth."

"Oh yeah? What'd you ever do, forget your homework?"

"Actually, yes. In seventh grade, I copied my math assignment from David Markowitz."

"Bones, you badass."

He can't help but grin, and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Fine. I engaged in a sexual relationship with my forensic anthropology professor. Better?"

He considers this.

"Yeah, I could see how that was probably frowned upon."

"The point is that you shouldn't be ashamed. No matter what you've done, you're a good man, Booth. A terrific father. You help people every day." The eyes that were so intently fixed on him can't seem to maintain the contact any longer. Her voice is small, almost as if she doesn't intend for him to hear. "And, you make my life better."

He turns into her, unable to keep from touching his gorgeous, amazing partner, who makes him feel so damn _full_.

"You make _me_ better, Bones."

He growls it into the soft skin of her neck, before his lips imbed their own designs into her flesh.

Under the contours of the invisible tattoo, she shivers.

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**AN**: Akihabara, also known as Akihabara Electric Town, is an area in Tokyo that is a major shopping center for electronic and computer items.


End file.
